Chapter III: Part 3

“Listen to me, my dear Titian,” said the prince, in a tone of cordial intimacy, “you are not ignorant (for every thing is known at a court), that it was the surpassing beauty of my wife which induced me to marry her, and you will easily believe how much it will gratify me, if by your pencil her charms are rendered immortal. I know not whether the ducal mantle will be allowed to fall at your request, this favour it must be your task to obtain of the Duchess, but understand me well, great master, that my ardent desire is that by your talent I should be possessed of the faithful copy of those transcendent charms, which have so enslaved me; and divested of all veil or drapery, as though reflected in a mirror, such as are seen in your delightful paintings--so that in after times, when she is represented (such as I knew and adored her), it may be said, ‘her beauty was perfect; he was not to blame for marrying her!’”

“Monsignore,” replied Titian, “although the artist sees and thinks only as of a model, in the woman who is before him, were she a queen, yet I will confess to your Highness, that I have so seldom seen the Duchess since I have had the honour of residing at your court, and at such times she has appeared to look on me with so much coldness and dignity, that even by your order, I never could venture to prescribe what attitude and costume would be most suitable: and I really think that this would be best intimated by your Highness.”

“Not at all, my dear Titian, you know nothing of women. It suffices that a husband wishes one thing, for them to press another. What objections, what remonstrances, what reproaches I should have to endure! She would insist that I had ceased to love her, and was no longer jealous--whilst you would only speak as the painter, and would be listened to and believed, for when Titian had said ‘On my honour, Madam, I can make you a Venus,’ where is the woman who could oppose him? In short, Titian, you know my wishes, do the best you can; the Duchess expects you;” and in fact the Prince had scarcely left the room, when two pages announced that the Duchess of Ferrara waited for him.

In a room richly embellished with all the luxury of art, and which would have inspired Ariosto with the enchantment of Armida’s palace, the Duchess reclined on cushions, which yielded to every movement, a young page of such beauty as is described in Raphael’s angels, gently waved a fan of peacock’s feathers, and a little Ethiopian slave knelt at his mistress’s feet, as though placed there in order to display the whiteness of her skin by the contrast.

Into this scene Titian followed his conductor, but was struck dumb, and seized as if with vertigo: he thought himself transported into some region of fancy. On a sign from their mistress a seat, the easel, the palette, the pencils and the colours were presented to the artist, and the attendants lowly bowing withdrew, leaving Titian and the Duchess alone.

The beauty of Laura is historical, and it were difficult to give any adequate description of it. When Titian had recovered sufficient self-command to render the feelings of the man subservient to those of the artist, he raised his eyes, and fixed them on the Duchess; it was the first time he had ever ventured to do so, for, as he had hinted, Laura had ever appeared desirous of avoiding him; but recollecting that he was now in her presence by the orders of the Prince, and by nature of his business, he continued his gaze, and met in return her gracious smile. Strange, it even seemed to him that he had seen that face before--long since--in a dream possibly--or when the artist’s imagination was inspired by some ideal beauty.

Titian drew the easel towards him, and respectfully bowing, said, “Madam, I am here by your order.”

“Am I well placed thus, Sir Artist?” she replied.

The sound of this voice thrilled every nerve. He was now certain that it was not the first time they had met; but when, where, or in what country he had seen this woman, he had no recollection.

The Duchess with a little of impatience repeated her question.

“Perfectly, Madam,” replied Titian, beginning at the same time to sketch the outline of the head.

“However,” he added, somewhat hesitating, “if your Highness would show more of the hair, I think the portrait would be improved.”

“Of course, Signor Titian, your advice is law.” And the Duchess proceeded to unbind her veil, and remove the jewels which confined those beautiful tresses, which like a golden shower fell on her snow white neck and shoulders. “What magnificent hair!” exclaimed the artist in an under tone; “yes, surely I have seen this woman before; but then she had not the transcendent beauty she has since attained, and which now renders her the most perfect model a painter could wish.”

Titian worked on as if inspired; and when the head and part of the shoulders were sufficiently advanced to allow the artist to satisfy the curiosity of the fair original, Titian permitted the Duchess to look at the canvass. On beholding the likeness, and the beauty of the sketch, Laura d’Este uttered a cry of surprise and admiration.

“You see, Madam, how much has been gained by yielding to my request to remove that heavy head dress, and you will, I hope, equally comply with my wish to see that gown taken off; attend, I beg you, Madam, to an artist’s advice--uncover those shoulders, so perfect in shape, that bust, so exquisitely formed, the contour of which is perfection. Surely it was not to paint a bit of stuff, or a knot of riband that God has endowed us with a talent of creation only secondary to his own great power; for I too can give life to that world of beauty, and when it shall have ceased to exist, it will survive on my canvass.”

“I no longer wonder that I was told to beware of Titian,” said the Duchess, as she gradually obeyed the painter’s directions; “our great Ariosto is not the only flatterer at our court.”

“If, Madam, you doubt my word, consult this mirror; its reflection is not more true than my language.”

As by degrees the Duchess, in compliance with Titian’s wishes, uncovered her foot, her leg, her knee--the whole of the admirable form which had placed on her fair brow the crown of Ferrara--Titian recalled the past; the vague ideas which had floated in his brain assumed consistency, and a name, a date, were all left wanting to satisfy him.

And now the exquisite outline was nearly complete; one only obstacle remained, the few folds of velvet which like a dark shade fell on the form of snow white beauty, and prevented this master-piece of art from shining forth in all its dazzling perfection.

“How happy was that artist,” exclaimed Titian with bitterness, “whose chisel was suffered to sculpture the Venus of old in all the chaste nudity of nature! He did not look on diamonds and draperies. Oh! were the same privilege given me, this day should my pencil also produce a Venus de Medicis!”

“Behold me, then!” exclaimed the Duchess, half laughing.

Titian, turning round, uttered a cry of amazement.

The wife of Don Alphonso of Ferrara had dropped her last veil, and reclined on her divan precisely in the same attitude in which at this time Titian’s Venus may still be seen with delight in the gallery at Florence.

“Great God! I was not then mistaken,” said Titian, hurrying towards her.

“Well!”

“It is you!”

“It is me. Your model--your Laurette! Ungrateful man! you had then forgotten me!”

“Can I believe it? the daughter of poor Guanetto?”

“Yes, she, who for a morsel of bread came to stand in your studio as a model, at Venice, is now the Sovereign of Ferrara. But the most surprising part of the event is, that her old lord and master persisted in his forgetfulness, and refused to recognise the Duchess of Ferrara till she had again descended to her humble capacity of a model.”

“I thought, indeed, those features were not unknown to me.”

“Well, this is something.--However, I forgive you. Twelve years have elapsed, and I must be much altered.”

“And how did you attain your present position?”

“As the wife of Don Alphonso? Simply thus. He saw me, loved me, and married me--nothing more natural.”

“Yes, he loves you, I have the proof of this.”

“He adores me. Ever since your arrival at Ferrara, he has entreated me to give him this portrait. I avoided it as long as I could, but was at length obliged to consent to prevent his being seriously grieved. God knows, I dreaded the moment enough! for....” And the young woman hesitated, and sighed.

“I understand: prudence bade you avoid me.”

“No, it was shame.”

Titian bowed down his head, and appeared buried in thought: when he had somewhat recovered himself, and was able to speak--“Come, Madam,” he said kindly but firmly, “replace your splendid robe, and adjust your head-dress. This sketch is now useless, and I will complete it another time. In my studio I have a portrait of you such as the Prince desires to possess. But I wish also to paint you for your subjects: since fate has placed a sovereign crown on your head, it shall not be said that I have deprived you of it, even in a picture.”

“But what will my husband say?”

“He can but be pleased; for instead of the one portrait ordered, there will be two--one as a Venus, the other as a Princess.”

Three days afterwards, Titian had returned to Venice....

Titian at this period was about thirty-seven years of age. He was tall and dignified, his forehead high, his eyes large and full of expression and feeling, his profile was correctly Grecian, his long beard curled naturally, he was framed to inspire respect and love. His manners were all grace, his smile enchanting.

After his return to Venice, he lived in princely style, so as to vie even with the splendour of the palace of the Doge. Affable, cheerful, generous, he was beloved even by his rivals. No artist ever acquired such wealth, or lavished it more generously and willingly.

[Sidenote: Pacheco. Granella.]

Two Cardinals one day called unexpectedly at his _Atelier_, and told him they came to dine with him. Titian detained them a short time under pretence of retouching their portraits, and when unobserved, threw his purse out of the window, saying to a servant, “I have some one to dinner.” In an hour after, their Eminences sat down to a repast served with regal splendour.

Titian’s studio was the resort and rendezvous of every remarkable personage in Europe: from every quarter of the world people hurried to behold the venerable old man, who approached his hundredth year. Henry III. King of France and Poland, attended by the Dukes of Ferrara, Mantua, and Albano, paid a visit of ceremony to the distinguished artist, and conversed at length with him on the subject of his honourable reception at the several courts of Charles V. and of Ferdinand and Philip. He admired all his collection of pictures, and having selected those he was desirous of purchasing, he begged that Titian would himself name the sum he should pay for them, and which should be immediately laid down. The old man smiled, and rising with some difficulty from his chair, he bowed respectfully to the king, saying, “Your Majesty will confer on me the favour of accepting these pictures, as a proof of my gratitude. I never take money from my guests.”

[Sidenote: Pope.]

Titian was unequalled in his talent for giving _life_ to his portraits. It is an undoubted fact that having placed the portrait of Paul III. on his terrace, to dry the varnish, the people who passed by, supposing it to be really the Pope taking the air on the balcony, stopped to bow with reverence to his Holiness.

Titian died of the plague raging in Venice, in 1576. Regrets and tears followed the splendid artist to the tomb, in the church of St. Luc, where he was interred with the highest honours.

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[Sidenote: For my Cottage.]

_Diospyrus Lotus_ is a handsome tree for a shrubbery. It grows very gracefully, spreading out its branches, and its leaves are tinged underneath with a beautiful pink, and covered with a long, soft, pinkish down. It is quite hardy.

Also the Locust tree of the Americans, _Robina pseudacacia_; it receives its name from Jean Robins, the Herbalist of Henry IV. and is very hardy. The flowers, which are very sweet, resemble a bunch of white laburnum.

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_The Hand of Heaven._

Despair, and suffering, and sorrow,
Had poured their bitterness on me;
Hope had no ray to gild the morrow,
And life was only misery.

Each coming day shed deeper sadness,
And health along with hope had fled;
Religion only saved from madness
This aching agonized head.

At length, when nature’s pulse was dying,
That Power, which brought religious balm
Gave back the life that seem’d fast flying,
With health, and hope, and peaceful calm.

Cease then, woe’s child, thy deep despairing;
Remember, Heaven’s hand can save,
Though every sorrow thou art sharing,
Though life seems hov’ring o’er the grave.

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Sorrow, though it ever sharpens the intellect, also sometimes sours the heart.

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[Sidenote: Bayle and his Mother.]

It is said of the celebrated writer, _Bayle_, that when his mother desired to receive his portrait, he sent her a picture of his _heart_.

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[Sidenote: Traditions.]

In a palace on the site of Hatton Garden, died John of Gaunt. _Brook House_, at the corner of Brook Street, Holborn, was the residence of Sir Fulke Greville, Lord Brook, the friend of Sir Philip Sydney. In the same street died Chatterton, by poison, and was buried in the Workhouse, Shoe Lane. In Gray’s Inn lived, and meditated, Lord Bacon. At the corner of Chancery Lane, Fleet Street, Cowley was born. In Salisbury Court, Fleet Street, was the house of Thomas Sackville, first Earl of Dorset, one of the first authors of English Tragedy. In Bolt Court, not far distant, lived Dr. Johnson. Congreve died in Surrey Street, Strand, at his own house. In Maiden Lane, Covent Garden, Voltaire lodged while in London, at the sign of the White Peruke. In Leicester Square was the town mansion of the Sydneys, Earl of Leicester, and the families of Sir Philip and Algernon Sydney. Dryden lived and died in Gerard Street. Newton lived in St. Martin’s Street. Steele in Bury Street, St. James’s. Spencer died at an inn where he put up, in King Street, Westminster. Sir Thomas More lived at Chelsea. Addison lived and died in Holland House, Kensington. Handel lived in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, and Gibbon in Bentinck Street, Manchester Square. De Foe kept a hosier’s shop in Cornhill.

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_The Graves of the Departed loved._

With fairest flowers
I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack
The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose;
Nor the azured harebell, like thy veins;
No, nor the leaf of eglantine,
Which, not to slander it, outsweeten’d
Not thy breath.

“These to renew with more than annual care,
That wakeful love with pensive step will go;
The hand that lifts the dibble shakes with fear,
Lest haply it disturb the friend below.

Vain fear! yet who that boasts a heart to feel,
An eye to pity, would that fear reprove?
They only who are cursed with breasts of steel
Can mock the foibles of surviving love.”

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[Sidenote: Eyes of the Mind.]

Objects are but bright and happy as the eyes of the mind see them; with a vision clouded or unclouded by its secret shadow.

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La Philosophie triomphe aisément des maux passés et des maux à venir; mais les maux présens triomphent d’elle.

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[Sidenote: Refinement.]

Those who rail at poetry and refinement as superfluous ingredients in every day happiness, little know what main props they thus seek to undermine. These will abide when even principles wave. _Manly delicacy_ is as necessary in family life as manly rectitude; and _womanly tact_ as womanly virtue. There is as much happiness wrecked from the absence of the one, as of the other, and perhaps more. Those who neglect the _varnishes_ of life, commit an insidious sin towards themselves: and these lie in the _mind_, and not in the _purse_.

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_Delights of Sea Bathing as_ usually _the custom_.

A chilly early rising with a walk to the beach before the day is aired, a tormentor in the shape of a rough sailor, or fat fisherwoman, to plunge you remorselessly beneath a horrid wave, whence you issue blinded, deafened, and stifled, and incomparably colder and crosser than you went in.

Why not, when the day is at the hottest, step leisurely in like a water-nymph, bathe head and face, nestle gradually beneath the rippling waves, and dabble with their smooth resistance for twenty minutes at least, emerging with limbs pliant and strengthened?

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[Sidenote: Effect of Scenery on the Mind.]

Surely the presence of sublimity and beauty must render the temperament of those who dwell in such solitudes poetical; and yet the mountain shepherd is only weather wise. Always simple, often stupid, he is scarcely superior in intelligence to his watch dogs, which are at the same time his coadjutors, his playfellows, and his protectors.

It is strange, if--living here alone amid the snows, removed from the contagious vices of mankind, from the coarse sensuality, the brutality, the debasement too often found in the world, from the temptations, the struggles, the strife produced by want, envy, ambition, the love of gain; constantly familiar with the ever varying face of primitive nature, with her grandest and loveliest aspects--the mind be not elevated, and the soul pure. Hourly are sights beheld, seen only in these regions. The glaciers reflecting tints of every hue, gilded with sunshine, or glowing with rose light. The stars, no longer brilliant specks, but appearing as they are, globes of intense fire. The moon, seeming to shed with her white beams the coldness of the icy skies. The whistling, the howling of the blast, its subterranean muttering, the roar of the thunder, all prolonged by a hundred echoes. The lightning flashing upon a numerous crystal-like pinnacle, the shivered pines, the rent rocks, the sublimity of the tempest! Then the dread silence which succeeds. The fleecy snow no longer falls; all is entranced by the mighty spell of frost; all mute, all motionless. Spring returns; the sun regains his power; light fleecy clouds float in the heavens; soft, balmy rains descend: below, verdure, foliage, and flowers burst forth with almost the first gleam of sunshine: but ah! the torrents are unbound, the masses of snow tremble, they are loosened, they fall: the avalanche overwhelms the valley with destruction and desolation.

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_Inscription on a Sun Dial._

Mark well my shade, and seriously attend
The silent lesson of a common friend.
Since time and life speed hastily away,
And no one can recall the former day,
Improve each flitting hour before ’tis past,
And know each fleeting hour may be thy last!

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[Sidenote: Law of Jury.]

The English law of Jury is founded on the law of nature. Man is to be judged by his _Peers_, because by them only can he be loved.

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[Sidenote: Tradition.]

The Rainbow Coffee-house, near Temple Bar, one of the oldest taverns in the metropolis, was kept by James Fan, a barber, soon after the introduction of coffee into England. Three years previous to the Restoration, anno 1657, he was presented by the Inquest of St. Dunstan’s in the West, “For making and selling a sort of liquor called ‘Coffee,’ as a great nuisance and prejudice of the neighbourhood,” &c. Strange as it may appear, within half a century of this period, namely in 1708, there were upwards of three thousand Coffee-houses in London alone. An old author says, Who would have thought, after the prejudice against coffee, which was considered pernicious and a public nuisance, it would have been, as now, so much drunk “by the _best of quality_, and by _physicians_?”

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[Sidenote: Tobacco.]

In the archives of the Society of Antiquaries, amongst other curious documents, is an alehouse license, granted by six justices of the peace in Kent, in which the innkeeper is thus enjoined: “Item, You shall not utter, nor suffer to be uttered, drunke, or taken, any tobacco within your house, cellar, or other place thereunto belonging.” This is dated in the time of James I.

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[Sidenote: Duchesse d’Abrantes.]

Her writings are not better known to the world, than her kind and generous mind were to those who had remained faithful during her many and great reverses of fortune. In the zenith of power, when her smile or frown could give value or discredit to those who surrounded her, she was a friend of the needy, a protectress of the weak. Her position often created envy, but her winning manner, her graceful accueil converted many an envious discontented spirit into an admiring friend. In her trials and reverses she was made to feel how few are the friends and followers of prosperity whose feelings do not become chilled by the sight of adversity.

The same kind and conciliatory manner, the same noble enthusiasm, the same powers of conversation, refined and heightened by the literary career she had adopted to ward off the actual and pressing gripe of poverty, were still hers; but their value was differently estimated. The small and modest apartment could boast of but few of the _habitués_ who had formerly swelled to suffocation the crowd that formerly frequented her gilded _salons_. Some few were to be found, however, surrounding her couch of pain, and never had she taken so much trouble to court and conciliate the richest nobles, the reigning princes of her own and other lands, as she now did to show her cordial welcome, and the heartfelt pleasure she felt in beholding the faithful few, who dreamed not while listening to her brilliant wit, her sparkling reminiscences of bright fêtes in which she had been a principal actress, that the finger of death was already on her, that her moments of life and vivacity freely given for their amusement, were stimulated by the excessive use of opium, while her hours of racking pain and mental anguish were confined to her own bosom.

She died in poverty; she who had given away in charity a hundred times more than would have made her last days comparatively affluent and easy--died in want. Her last days, nay hours, disturbed by pressing, though trifling demands. She died in an _Hospital_ for the destitute.

I am proud to remember that she honoured me with her esteem and friendship.

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[Sidenote: Philip II.]

Philip II. of Spain, said satirically, but truly, that actions in themselves are nothing, it is the _result_ that stamps them with right or wrong.

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[Sidenote: Beauty.]

Bacon says justly, the best part of beauty is that which a picture cannot express.

[Sidenote: Jacobite Poetry.]

The following are the words to which the Jacobites sing the air of “God save the king,” which was originally a Jacobite song. Copied from an inscription cut on a glass drinking cup, at Fingarth, in the Carse of Gourie, Perthshire.

God save the King, I pray,
God bless the King, I pray,
God save the King;
Send him victorious,
Happy, and glorious,
Soon to reign over us,
God save the King!

God bless the Prince of Wales,
The true born Prince of Wales[5]
Sent us by Thee;
Grant us one favour more,
The King for to restore,
As thou hast done before,
The familie!

This tradition may remind the reader of the answer of the Jacobite Countess, to the reproach of “not praying for the King.”--“For the King, I do pray; but I do not think it necessary to tell God _who is the King_.”

[5] From this line it appears that these verses must have been written about the time of the rebellion, 1715, or before it.

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[Sidenote: Ill-placed Confidence.]

Among the bitter varieties of sorrow, forming the inheritance of the human kind, there are few more humiliating, more fitted to cleave into the inmost soul, than a discovery of the unworthiness of those we love; of a breach of confidence in that heart wherein we have deposited the whole treasure of our affections. There is a degree of self-abasement connected with the disappointment, which recoils with double force on our perceptions; the sharpness of the pain admits of no mitigation.

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[Sidenote: Charity of Mind.]

The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions of little (_not_) soon forgotten charities. The _humblest_ may throw in their mite.

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[Sidenote: Bells.]

The sound of bells is never heard in Turkey, their necessity is superseded in the following manner: a circular gallery is built round the turrets of the mosques, where Turkish boys are stationed, who in a loud voice summon the Mahometans three times a day to prayers; at sunrise, at noon, and at sunset. They do not employ watchmen, as their maxim is, “each for himself, and God for us all.”

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[Sidenote: La Mélancolie.]

De ta tige détachée,
Pauvre feuille desséchée,
Où vas-tu?--Je n’en sais rien:
L’orage a brisé le chêne
Qui seul était mon soutien.
De son inconstante haleine,
Le zéphir, ou l’aquilon,
Depuis ce jour me promène
De la forêt à la plaine,
De la montagne au vallon;
Je vais où le vent me mène,
Sans me plaindre, ou m’effrayer;
Je vais où va toute chose,
Où va la feuille de rose,
Et la feuille de laurier.

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[Sidenote: A Fire Screen.]

Draw a landscape on paper with common Indian ink, representing a winter scene, a mere outline, the foliage to be painted with muriate of cobalt (green), muriate of copper (yellow), and acetate of cobalt (blue), all which colours are invisible; but on the screen being held near the fire, the gentle warmth will occasion the trees, flowers, &c. to display themselves in their natural colours, and winter is magically changed to summer. As the paper cools, the colours disappear, and the effect may be repeated as often as required.

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[Sidenote: Banquo’s Son.]

Fleance, Banquo’s son, who escaped from the murderous designs of Macbeth, fled into Wales; where for some time he kept himself close, and having afterwards married Nesta, the daughter of Griffith ap Llewelin, prince of North Wales, he begat Walter, who returning into Scotland, suppressed the rebellion of the Highlanders with the reputation of so much bravery, and managed the king’s revenues in those parts with so great prudence, that the king made him _Steward_ of the whole kingdom of Scotland. Whereupon, this name of an office gave the surname of Stewart to his posterity: which, spreading through all parts of Scotland in many noble branches, and being advanced to several honours, hath long flourished there. Three hundred and thirty years ago, Robert Stewart, a descendant of this house, in right of Marjorie his mother, daughter of King Robert Bruce, obtained the kingdom of Scotland.

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[Sidenote: Uncertainty.]

There are many people who falter and tremble as long as there is any mixture of doubt in their minds as to what they can, or what they ought to do, but who, the moment that doubt ceases, have power and will to dare every thing.

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_The Drowning Fly._

In yonder glass behold a drowning fly,
Its little feet how vainly does it ply!
Its cries we hear not, yet it loudly cries;
And gentle hearts can feel its agonies.
Poor helpless victim! and will no one save?
Will no one snatch thee from the threat’ning wave?
Is there no friendly hand, no helper nigh?
And must thou, little struggler, must thou die?
Thou shalt not, whilst this hand can set thee free,
Thou shalt not die; this hand shall rescue thee.
My finger’s tip shall prove a friendly shore;
There, trembler, all thy dangers now are o’er.
Wipe thy wet wings, and banish all thy fear;
Go, join thy num’rous kindred in the air.
Away it flies, resumes its harmless play,
And lightly gambols in the golden ray.

Smile not, spectators, at this humble deed;
For you, perhaps, a nobler task’s decreed!

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[Sidenote: Mulgrave Family.]

The first diving bell was nothing but a very large kettle, suspended by ropes, with the mouth downwards, and planks to sit on fixed in the middle of its concavity. The Greeks at Toledo, in 1588, made an experiment before the Emperor Charles V. with it, when they descended with a lighted candle to a considerable depth. In 1683, William Phipps, the son of a blacksmith, formed a project for unloading a rich Spanish ship, sunk at Hispaniola; Charles II. gave him a ship, with every necessary for the undertaking, but being unsuccessful, Phipps returned in great poverty. He then endeavoured to procure another vessel, but failing, he got a subscription, to which the Duke of Albemarle contributed. In 1687, Phipps set sail in a ship of 200 tons, having previously engaged to divide the profits according to the twenty shares of which the subscription consisted. At first all his labours proved fruitless, but at length, when he seemed almost to despair, he was fortunate enough to bring up so much treasure that he returned to England with £200,000 sterling. Of this sum he got about £20,000, and the Duke of Albemarle £90,000. Phipps was knighted by the King, and laid the foundation of the present house of Mulgrave.

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[Sidenote: Le Bonheur.]

Il ne faut jamais renoncer au bonheur. Les sources du bien et du mal sont cachées, et nous ignorons laquelle doit s’ouvrir pour arroser l’espace de la vie.

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After the massacre of St. Bartholomew, the following lines were stuck up in every part of France:

L’on demande la convenance
De Catherine et Jesabel,
L’une Reine d’Israel,
L’autre Reine de la France,
L’une étoit de malice extrême,
Et l’autre est la malice même;
Enfin le jugement est tel,
Par une vengeance divine,
Les chiens mangèrent Jesabel,
La charogne de Catherine
Sera différente en ce cas,
Car les chiens n’en voudront pas!

The murders that Catherine is accused of, with too great probability, are a fearful list: Queen Jane of Navarre, her own son Charles IX. the Viscount de Chartres, the Secretary Lomerica, Du Guast, favourite of Henri III. and others ad infinitum.

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[Sidenote: Epitaph.]

I’ve lost my mistress, horse, and wife,
And when I think on human life,
It’s well it is no worse;
My mistress violent and bold,
My wife curst ugly and a scold;
I’m sorry for my horse!

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[Sidenote: Prosperity and Adversity.]

The virtue of prosperity is temperance. The virtue of adversity is fortitude. Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes; and adversity is not without comforts and hopes. We see in needle-works and embroidery it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground. Judge therefore of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly, virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when they are incensed or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue.

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[Sidenote: Condé.]

“On marche lentement, sous le poids des Lauriers,” was the answer of Louis XIV. to the apology of the great, but gouty Condé, for detaining him on the staircase of Versailles.

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[Sidenote: Resignation.]

“The miseries, the calamities, the heart-rendings, and the tears, which are so intimately interwoven by the great Artist in our natures as not to be separated in a single instance, are in the first place, our security of a future state, and in the next place, seem to slope the way before us, and by gradual operation fit our minds for viewing, with some sort of fortitude, that hideous chasm that lies between us and that state, death. View those miseries, then, as the special acts of mercy and commiseration of a beneficent Creator, who with every calamity, melts away a link of that earthly chain that fetters our wishes to this dismal world. Accept his blessings and his goods when he sends them, with gratitude and enjoyment; receive his afflictions too with as joyous acceptance, and as hearty gratitude.

Thus, and not otherwise, you will realize all your Utopian flights of desire; by turning every thing to matter of comfort, and living contented with dispensations which you cannot alter, and if you could, would most assuredly alter for the worse. So limited is man, so imperfect in his nature, that the extent of his virtues borders on vice, and the extent of his wisdom on error.”

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[Sidenote: Le Tems.]

Le tems passe, la vie s’écoule, l’homme meurt et s’anéantit; rien ne lui survit que le bien ou le mal qu’il a fait.

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The good things which belong to _prosperity_ are to be wished, but the good things that belong to _adversity_ are to be admired.

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[Sidenote: Maréchale de Luxembourg.]

La Maréchale de Luxembourg retirait de ses promenades deux effets très-salutaires, l’exercice du corps, et la satisfaction de faire du bien; car pour ne pas être prise au dépourvu elle imagina de remplir la pomme de sa longue canne de pièces de monnaie. La Maréchale aimait les inventions singulières. Un jour, qu’elle avait une fluxion, elle imagina de faire monter une chaise à porteur dans son salon, et elle s’y trouva si bien qu’elle y resta tout l’hiver. Quel est le plus grand des deux? lui demanda-t-on, La Fontaine, ou Molière?--Celui-ci, répondit-elle, sans balancer, en montrant La Fontaine, est plus parfait, dans un genre moins parfait.

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[Sidenote: The Spider.]

It is an oriental idea, that the spider draws its venom from the rose; and thus it is that too often from the sweetest sources comes the blight of happiness and human affections.

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[Sidenote: Sur Fénélon.]

Sous cette pierre repose Fénélon; Passant, n’efface point par tes pleurs cette épitaphe, afin que d’autres la lisent, et pleurent comme toi.

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[Sidenote: Flowers.]

“Flowers are one of the many beautiful gifts of God to man.”

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[Sidenote: To-morrow.]

See where the falling day
In silence steals away,
Behind the western hills withdrawn;
Her fires are quench’d, her beauty fled,
With blushes all her face o’erspread,
As conscious she had ill fulfill’d
The promise of the dawn.

Another morning soon shall rise,
Another day salute our eyes,
As smiling and as fair as she,
And make as many promises.
But do not thou
The tale believe,
They’re sisters all
Born to deceive.

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_Letter of Marian Delorme to M. de Cinq. Mars._

Paris, Feb. 1641.
My dear Effiat,

While you are forgetting me at Narbonne, and giving yourself up to the pleasures of the court and the delight of thwarting M. le Cardinal de Richelieu, I, according to your express desire, am doing the honours of Paris to your English lord, the Marquis of Worcester; and I carry him about, or rather he carries me, from curiosity to curiosity, choosing always the most grave and serious, speaking very little, listening with extreme attention, and fixing on those whom he interrogates two large blue eyes, which seem to pierce to the very centre of their thoughts. He is remarkable for never being satisfied with any explanations which are given him; and he never sees things in the light in which they are shown him: you may judge of this by a visit we made together to Bicêtre, where he imagined he had discovered a genius in a madman. If this madman had not been actually raving, I verily believe your Marquis would have entreated his liberty, and have carried him off to London, in order to hear his extravagancies, from morning till night, at his ease. We were crossing the court of the madhouse, and I, more dead than alive with fright, kept close to my companion’s side, when a frightful face appeared behind some immense bars, and a hoarse voice exclaimed, “I am not mad! I am not mad! I have made a discovery which would enrich the country that adopted it.” “What has he discovered?” I asked of our guide. “Oh!” he answered, shrugging his shoulders, “something trifling enough; you would never guess it: it is the use of the steam of boiling water.” I began to laugh. “This man,” continued the keeper, “is named Solomon de Caus: he came from Normandy four years ago, to present to the king a statement of the wonderful effects that might be produced from his invention. To listen to him, you would imagine that with steam you could navigate ships, move carriages, in fact, there is no end to the miracles which, he insists upon it, could be performed. The Cardinal sent the madman away without listening to him. Solomon de Caus, far from being discouraged, followed the Cardinal wherever he went, with the most determined perseverance, who, tired of finding him for ever in his path, and annoyed to death with his folly, ordered him to be shut up in Bicêtre, where he has now been for three years and a half, and where, as you hear, he calls out to every visitor that he is not mad, but that he has made a valuable discovery. He has even written a book on the subject, which I have here.”[6] Lord Worcester, who had listened to this account with much interest, after reflecting a time, asked for the book, of which, after having read several pages, he said, “This man is not mad. In my country, instead of shutting him up, he would have been rewarded. Take me to him, for I should like to ask him some questions.”

He was, accordingly, conducted to his cell, but after a short time, he came back sad and thoughtful--“He is, indeed, mad now,” said he, “misfortune and captivity have alienated his reason, but it is you who have to answer for his madness: when you cast him into that cell, you confined the greatest genius of the age.”

After this, we went away, and since that time he has done nothing but talk of Solomon de Caus.

Adieu, my dear friend and faithful Henry. Make haste and come back, and pray do not be so happy where you are, as not to keep a little love for me.

MARIAN DELORME.

[6] This book is entitled, “Les raisons de forces mouvantes avec diverses machines tant utiles que puissantes.” Published 1615.

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[Sidenote: Physiognomy.]

Was there ever seen a smile on the lip, with which the upper part of the face agrees not in expression, that was not evidently feigned and forced,[7] to be the disguise of a mind ill at ease, and of a sick spirit? The mind looks through the eyes, and the brow should smile in unison with the lip, to show the joy sincere.

[7] This was uniformly remarked of Napoleon’s smile.

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[Sidenote: A Father’s Death Bed.]

How solemn is the sick man’s room,
To friends or kindred lingering near;
Poring on that uncertain gloom
In silent heaviness and fear!

How sad, his feeble hand in thine,
The start of every pulse to share;
With painful haste each wish divine,
Yet feel the hopelessness of care.

To turn aside the full fraught eye,
Lest those faint orbs perceive the tear;
To bear the weight of every sigh,
Lest it should reach that wakeful ear.

In the dead stillness of the night,
To lose the faint, faint sound of breath;
To listen in restrain’d affright,
To deprecate each thought of death.

And when a movement chased that fear,
And gave thy heart-blood leave to flow,
In thrilling awe the prayer to hear,
Through the clos’d curtain murmur’d low.

The prayer of him whose holy tongue
Had never yet exceeded truth;
Upon whose guardian care had hung
The whole dependance of thy youth.

Who noble, dauntless, frank, and mild,
Was for his very goodness fear’d;
Beloved with fondness like a child,
And like a blessed saint rever’d.

I have known friends--but who can feel
The kindness such a father knew?
I serv’d him still with tender zeal,
But knew not then how much was due.

And did not Providence ordain
That we should soon be laid as low,
No heart could such a stroke sustain,
No reason would survive the blow.

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[Sidenote: The Plague.]

The fearful progress and effects of the dreadful pestilence which visited England during the reign of Edward III. are traced by a masterly hand in the work from which this extract is made.

“In the malignancy of this extraordinary disease, it engrossed the ill of all other maladies, and made doctors despicable. Of a potency equal to death, it possessed itself of all its armouries, and was itself the death of every other mortal distemper. The touch, yea, the very sight of the infected was deadly; and its signs were so sudden, that families seated in happiness at their meals, have seen the _plague-spot_ begin to redden, and have wildly scattered themselves for ever. The cement of society was dissolved by it. Mothers, when they saw the sign of the infection on the babes at their bosom cast them from them with abhorrence. Wild places were sought for shelter: some went into ships, and anchored themselves afar off on the waters. But the angel that was pouring the vial had a foot on the sea as well as on the dry land. No place was so wild that the plague did not visit,--none so secret that the quick-sighted pestilence did not discover--none could fly that it did not overtake.

“It was as if Heaven had repented the making of mankind, and was shovelling them all into the sepulchre. Justice was forgotten, and her courts deserted. The terrified jailors fled from the felons that were in fetters; the innocent and the guilty leagued themselves together, and kept within their prisons for safety; the grass grew in the market places; the cattle went moaning up and down the fields, wondering what had become of their keepers: the rooks and the ravens came into the towns, and built their nests in the mute belfries; silence was universal, save when some infected wretch was seen clamouring at a window.

“For a time all commerce was in coffins and shrouds; but even that ended. Shrift there was none; churches and chapels were open, but neither priests nor penitent entered; all went to the charnel-house. The sexton and the physician were cast into the same deep and wide grave; the testator and his heirs and executors were hurled from the same cart into the same hole together. Fire became extinguished, as if its element too had expired; the seams of the sailorless ships yawned to the sun. Though doors were open, and coffers unwatched, there was no theft; all offences ceased, and no cry but the universal woe of the pestilence was heard of among men. The wells overflowed, and the conduits ran to waste; the dogs banded themselves together, having lost their masters and ran howling over all the land; horses perished of famine in their stalls; old friends but looked at one another when they met, keeping themselves far aloof; creditors claimed no debts, and courtiers performed their promises; little children went wandering up and down, and numbers were seen dead in all corners. Nor was it only in England that the plague raged; it travelled over a third part of the whole earth, like the shadow of an eclipse, as if some dreadful thing had been interposed between the world and the sun-source of life.”

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[Sidenote: Trifles.]

Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from trifles springs,
Since life’s best joys consist in peace and ease,
And few can serve, or save, but all may please,
Oh! let the ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence!
Large bounties to bestow, we wish in vain,
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With power to give them, or to crown with health,
Our little lot denies.--But Heaven decrees
To all the gift of minist’ring to ease!
The gentle offerings of patient love,
Beyond all flattery, and all praise above;
The mild forbearance of another’s fault,
The taunting word suppress’d as soon as thought;
On these Heaven made the bliss of man depend,
And crush’d misfortune, when it made a _friend_.
A solitary blessing few can find:
Our joys, with those we love, are intertwined.
And he whose helpful tenderness removes
Th’ obstructing thorn that wounds the breast he loves,
Smooths not another’s rugged path alone,
But scatters roses to adorn his own!

❦

So little resemblance in character was there between Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry VI. and her father Renè, King of Sicily and Jerusalem, that it is related of him, that when the news of the loss of one of his kingdoms was brought to him, while he was engaged in painting a partridge from nature, he paid no attention to the communication, nor would he see the messenger till he had given the finishing strokes to his design. Renè’s compositions in music, are at this very time the delight of his native country, and indeed of Europe. He was the inventor of the Opera ballet; and the drama of _La Tentation_, lately revived with so much splendour at Paris in 1832, was originally composed by this Prince. The wild story is his own, and the delightful melodies his composition, which have been merely tamed and regulated by modern art. This Prince, adored for his beneficence by his people, who named him the “_Good_,” was scorned by the destructive nobles of his era as _fainéant_ and feeble-minded. After the death of his first wife, Isabella of Lorraine, he married Jeanne de Lovel. She was of so grave a character, that she was never known to laugh but once, at a pageant devised by her royal husband--namely, a boat filled with water-pipes, which played on every side, and completely drenched the spectators that did not use some agility in getting out of the way.

Margaret’s elder sister, Yolente, survived her two years; she had a beautiful daughter called Margaret of Anjou the younger. Maria Louisa, Napoleon’s Empress, possessed the breviary of this Princess, in which there is one sentence supposed to have been written by the once beautiful, powerful, and admired Margaret, Queen of England, her aunt:

“Vanité des vanités, tout est vanité.”

❦

_To Julia._

Sweet, be not proud of those fair eyes,
Which star-like sparkle in their skies;
Be ye not proud of that rich hair,
Which wantons in the love-sick air,
Nor be you proud because you see
All hearts your captives, yours yet free.
When as that jewel which you wear
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone,
When all your world of beauty’s gone.

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[Sidenote: Good Nature.]

Good nature must be a qualification peculiar to the English, as it is remarkable that there is no term for it in any other language.

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Among the most beautiful of the Welsh Melodies still exists the well known air of “Sweet Richard.” Tradition declares this melody was composed by Owen Glendower, as a tribute of regret to his Prince, it was afterwards sung and played in the many risings in favour of Richard II. with the same powerful effect that the celebrated Jacobite airs had on the partisans of the house of Stuart.

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The following touching lines, which have been attributed to Henry VI. were probably written during his long imprisonment in the Tower.

“Kingdoms are but cares,
State is devoid of stay;
Riches are ready snares,
And hasten to decay.

Who meaneth to remove the rock
Out of his slimy mud,
Shall mire himself, and hardly ’scape
The swelling of the flood.”

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[Sidenote: Manner.]

There is no policy like politeness; and a good manner is the best thing in the world, either to get a good name or to supply the want of it.

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_Found in Sir Walter Raleigh’s Bible in the Gate House at Westminster._

Even such is time, that takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days!
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.

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_Speech of a Shawanese Chief to Lord Dunmore._

“I appeal to any white man to-day, if ever he entered Logan’s cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat; if he ever came cold or naked, and he gave him not clothing. During the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle, ignominious in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love of the Whites, that those of my own country pointed at me as I went by, and said, Logan is the friend of white men! I had even thought to live with you, but the iniquities of one among you did away that thought, and dragged me from my cabin of peace. Colonel Cressop the last spring, in cold blood, cut off all the relations of Logan, sparing neither woman nor child. There runs not a drop of the blood of Logan in the veins of any human creature. This called on me for revenge; I have sought it; I have killed many; revenge has been fully glutted.

“For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace; but harbour not the thought, that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear; he will not turn his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan?--not one.”

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[Sidenote: Costume of a Greek Woman.]

Over the petticoat a loose jacket of white cloth, reaching to the knee, and open in front; its edges and sleeves wrought very tastefully with red cord. The head dress was composed entirely of money. A fillet of gold sequins was first put, _à la feronière_, around the forehead, and a close cap, with a throat piece like the gorget of a helmet, fitted the skull exactly, stitched with coins of all values, folded over each other according to their sizes, like scales. The hair was then braided, and fell down the back, loaded also with money. The greater proportion of pieces are _paras_, a small and thin Turkish coin of small value. Among the larger pieces are dollars and coins of all nations. This head dress often constitutes the marriage portion of the wearer.

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_On a Rose which was growing in a Skull._

Bella flor donde naciste?
Que temprana fué tu suerte!
Que al primer paso que diste,
Encontraste con la muerte
Dejarte es cosa triste,
Llevarte es cosa fuerte,
Dejarte donde naciste,
Es dejarte con la muerte.

_Translation by Gen. Carrol._

Beauteous flower! where hast thou grown?
How early is thy doom!
Thy scented blossoms scarce are blown,
When destined to the tomb!
’Tis hard to pluck thee at thy birth,
’Tis sad to leave thee in this bed;
To leave thee in thy native earth,
Is but to leave thee with the dead.

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[Sidenote: A fearful Witness.]

In the commission of evill, feare no man so much as thy own selfe. Another is but one witnesse against thee; thou art a thousand. Another thou may’st avoid, but thyself thou can’st not. Wickedness is its own punishment.

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[Sidenote: Thirteenth Century.]

Long toed shoes were invented by Fulk, Count of Anjou, to hide an excrescence on one of his feet. These toes were so long as to be fastened to the knees with gold chains, and carved at the extreme point with the representation of a church window, a bird, or some fantastic device.

❦

The game of Cassino is thus played in some parts of Germany:--

Great Cassino takes sixteen.
Little Cassino--fifteen.
Every Ace--fourteen.
King--thirteen.
Queen--twelve.
Knave--eleven.

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[Sidenote: Local Associations.]

Particular places become dear to the heart of man more generally by the associations attached to them, than by their beauty, convenience, or fertility. Nor is this the case only as affecting individuals, for attachment founded on memories or traditions binds tribes and nations likewise to certain spots, and this is carried so far occasionally that the mere name of a distant country will call from the bosom feelings of affection and devotion, joy, pride, and hope.

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[Sidenote: On the Choice of a Wife.]

Enough of beauty to secure affection,
Enough of sprightliness to shun dejection,
Of modest diffidence to claim protection;
A docile mind subservient to correction,
Yet stored with sense, with reason, and reflection,
And every passion held in due subjection;
Just faults enough to keep her from perfection.
When such I find, I’ll make her my election.

❦

[Sidenote: Henry IV.]

On the night of the twentieth of January, 1608, the historian Pierre Mathieu relates, that he was present at the levee of Henry IV. of France, when that monarch said, that such had been the intense frost on that night, “his whiskers had been frozen when in bed by the side of the queen.”

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